


Silver Road

by appolsaucy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Small Towns, small town homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:31:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appolsaucy/pseuds/appolsaucy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They rolled through the darkness until Derek’s eyes gave up trying to pierce through it and he let himself float, nothing but summer breeze and Stiles and his heart in his throat. It was the freest he’d ever felt.</p><p>He turned to tell Stiles, who lurched over the console and kissed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Road

**Author's Note:**

> This story was commissioned by Elena (tumblr user ouchmyfeels) with the prompt "Sterek fic based off of the short film [Silver Road](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bq4UOMtpaWY)" 
> 
> It was super challenging to write, but I'm glad I did it, and I hope you like it?? Enjoy!

“I should have known I’d find you here.”

Derek froze, then grinned up at his oil tank, sweaty and greasy and suddenly undeniably happy. He rested his head on his backboard for a moment, then pushed himself out from under his car. He slid to a stop at Stiles’ feet, knocking their shoes together while Stiles grinned down at him.

“You look as happy as a pig in mud,” Stiles replied. “Actually, you kind of look like one, too. Did some girls tell you that much grease is attractive on a man? Don’t listen to them, Derek, they’ve lied to you.”

Derek huffed, sitting up and swiping half-heartedly in Stiles’ direction. Stiles jumped back and laughed, always delighted when Derek played with him. Quick to anger and even quicker to joy, that was Stiles.

Derek ran a hand through his damp hair, rubbed ineffectually at the swaths of oil on his biceps a few times before giving it up for a lost cause. He looked up to find Stiles’ eyes trailing over him, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he couldn’t believe Derek was exactly as he’d left him two months ago.

“How was your camp?” Derek asked, finally remembering to act like a civilized person instead of staring silently. His mom always got on him about that, but he figured Stiles probably knew him better than anyone. If he was going to get annoyed at Derek for being quiet he would have done it years ago.

“It was awesome,” Stiles told him. He chattered happily about San Francisco and computers and scholarship programs while Derek grabbed them some beers from the garage fridge. His dad kept the fridge stocked and didn’t ask questions as long as his supply didn’t come up too short.

Stiles’ stream of words never faltered when Derek popped the cap off one and slipped it into the hand Stiles was gesturing less aggressively with. It had always been like that with them, Derek sliding quietly in and out of the frenetic movements of Stiles’ life and Stiles unconsciously adapting around him. They ended up leaning against the hood of Derek’s Camaro waiting for the sun to set, the fading light making Stiles’ cheekbones more angular than Derek remembered them.

“And then Lydia handed him the eraser, corrected the end of the problem, and told him to email her if he had any questions.”

Derek huffed. “She said that to a teacher?”

“I know!” Stiles exclaimed. “Isn’t she transcendent? Even her hair is like the embodiment of her reign of terror on us mere mortals.”

Derek snorted and picked at the label on his bottle. “Did you kiss her?”

Stiles choked on his swallow. “What? No.”

“It sounds like you like her, is all.” Derek shrugged.

Stiles snorted. “Lydia is like the Beyoncé of math camp. You don’t kiss Beyoncé unless she tells you to. Or if you’re swearing fealty,” he adds contemplatively.

“But you had fun?” Derek asked, cutting off what he knew would be an inventive tangent.

“Yeah.”

“You’ll have just as much fun at college,” Derek said.

Stiles nodded slowly. “You’re staying here,” he commented, though it wasn’t news to either of them.

“Dad’s going to talk to Deaton about me working at his garage.”

Stiles gave a short laugh, a wheeze that sounded like it was being pulled out of his chest. “You’re going to have to spend time working on other people’s cars and ignore your own baby for once.”

“Bite your tongue,” Derek growled, swatting at Stiles’ hip.

Stiles laughed again, delighted, and wrapped himself around Derek’s arm like an octopus while Derek pretended to shove him off the hood. He ceded when Derek dug his fingers into his side, jumping off like a startled cat.

“Take me for a ride,” he said with a grin, recovering his balance with minimal flailing.

“A ride? Why?”

But Stiles was already heading for the passenger door. “Come on, it’ll be fun!” he called as it swung shut behind him.

“But I have to— Stiles!” Derek groaned. Stiles just made encouraging motions behind the glass, so Derek pitched their bottles, put away his tools, and cleaned himself up as best he could. When he slid into the driver’s seat Stiles was drumming his fingers impatiently on his thighs.

They went for burgers, where Stiles flirted with Betty, who’d been bringing them burgers since they were old enough to pay for them, and rhapsodized over the mint chocolate milkshake he hadn’t been able to order in two whole months. The whole thing was painfully comfortable, as constant to Derek as breathing but somehow already nostalgic.

In five days Stiles would leave town for college, and Derek would stay at home and work. Stiles would come home at breaks, and he’d be happy to see Derek, and he’d regale Derek with stories of his new friends and his classes, while Derek would listen, happy to have Stiles within arm’s reach again. And they’d have all next summer, when Derek wasn’t working, unless Stiles had another camp, but then the next summer he probably wouldn’t come home, busy with classes or jobs or his other friends. And Derek would probably have new friends by then, too, and maybe he’d have his own house, or at least an apartment, and maybe he and Stiles wouldn’t fit together so easily when they saw each other at Christmas or Easter.

Derek could already tell, in the way Stiles’ eyes were lit up—he may have found Derek the same as he left him, but Stiles had come back different, and he would come back more and more different every time.

They hung out at the diner until Betty started making noises about closing early. Derek ended up driving them around the outskirts of town, his Camaro rumbling aimlessly past the corn fields. Derek took turn after turn after turn, not bothering to pay much attention to where they were going. Inside the car was quiet, not even the radio cushioning the silence as his headlights cut through the dark.

Now that Stiles had gotten his first update out, it was like his system was glitched, like when tapes would skip and someone would stutter out half a word six times before the real thing came out. He was jittery, on edge like he couldn’t get settled in his skin. It happened to him sometimes, where Derek knew Stiles just didn’t feel like he fit anymore, had described it as having a hundred edges trying to poke out of places he was supposed to be smooth. Derek knew how to let him ride it out, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

It made him feel jittery, too, like everything was about to go wrong. He needed Stiles to stay on course, because that’s what kept Derek moving in the right direction, even if it wasn’t ever a smooth ride. Being around Stiles made Derek feel off-balance and centered at the same time, like he was about to fall but at least it would be into Stiles. He wondered if he made Stiles feel the same way, or if it was just something Stiles did to other people.

“Hey,” Stiles interrupted his thoughts. “Turn your lights off.”

“What?”

“Turn your lights off,” Stiles repeated, then snaked his hand under Derek’s elbow to do it himself.

“Shit!” Derek hit the brakes, bracing against the steering wheel as his world went black.

“Just drive,” Stiles sighed, like Derek was being the problem here. “I know the road. Besides, when have I ever led you astray?”

Derek refused to dignify that with an answer. “This is crazy,” he said instead. He didn’t stop driving, though, because Derek always went along with Stiles, like a reflex he couldn’t figure out how to tether. “I’m going to fuck up my car!”

“Your small penis car,” Stiles mocked him, because he was a fucking obnoxious brat.

Derek gritted his teeth and flexed his hands around the steering wheel, exhaling sharply as he listened to asphalt he couldn’t see crackle under his tires. Stiles didn’t say anything after that, but Derek could hear him settle, rustling fabric quieting as he stopped fidgeting and let the breeze flow over him.

They rolled through the darkness until Derek’s eyes gave up trying to pierce through it and he let himself float, nothing but summer breeze and Stiles and his heart in his throat. It was the freest he’d ever felt.

He turned to tell Stiles, who lurched over the console and kissed him.

Derek slammed his head backward and jerked the steering wheel as Stiles mashed their mouths together, frantic and desperate as his teeth caught on Derek’s lip. The Camaro swooped as they bounced through the ditch, and corn leaves slapped Derek’s shoulder as he tried to find the brake pedal while Stiles clutched his arms for balance.

Derek finally smashed a foot on the brake, and Stiles slammed back into the steering wheel. He gaped at Stiles, who still rested mostly on Derek’s leg. Stiles stared back at him, eyes wide with horror, before he scrambled back across the seats and tumbled out the door into the dirt. Derek watched him disappear into the wall of shaking corn stalks and waited for his heart to start working again.

“Fuck,” he said. He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

He got out of the Camaro, slamming the door behind him. “Stiles!” he shouted, furious. “Stiles!”

He jumped on the hood of the car, heedless of his boots on the newly polished paint. He couldn’t see more than an arm’s length into the field, and the corn stalks rustled in the breeze, rhythmic as the ocean and not a peep from Stiles anywhere.

“Stiles!” he shouted again, but the only response was the whistle of leaves and the absent rasping of a lone frog.

Derek dropped down into the dirt and dragged his hands through his hair. He took a deep breath, then another, then threw himself into the driver’s seat and jerked the car into reverse.

And spun his tires in the dirt.

He hit the gas again and again, flipped into drive and tried to go forward, then backward again.

Nothing.

He flipped it to neutral and threw his door open, storming to the front of the car to push on the hood. He strained against it, but the dirt was loose and the Camaro didn’t budge.

“Fucking…shit, goddamn,” he swore, leaning down on the hood in defeat. He spun around, leaning back on one of the headlights, his arms crossed tightly in front of him. He glared into the darkness, furious and simmering, for what seemed like forever until a rustle caught his ear.

It came closer and closer until he could hear slow footsteps with it, and when Derek looked up he could see Stiles’ silhouette, his hands slowly pushing stalks aside like a curtain. His face was hidden, but Derek could see the hunch of his shoulders, how he stared studiously at the ground. He froze between the last of the corn, like if he let go of the leaves he’d be lost.

Derek stood. “Help me push the car,” he snapped.

\---

The ride back was awful and silent, though he doubted he would have been able to hear anything over the cacophony in his head anyway. Where in the field he’d been blank, empty of everything but fury, now his head swam with thoughts, screaming one thing after another he didn’t know how to deal with.

Stiles was as far away from him as physically possible, tucked as tight into the nook between the door and his seat as he could manage. His fidgeting of earlier was gone, everything about him rock still, his arms wrapped around his torso protectively. It was fucking infuriating, how he could sit there and be, and be still, when Derek was panicking. Derek felt like his skin was about to explode and Stiles had suddenly found composure. Stiles, who couldn’t even stay still when he was asleep.

“I always knew you were a freak,” Derek heard himself say. He heard Stiles flinch violently, inhale as if pained.

“That’s not,” Derek tried. “I didn’t—”

Because it wasn’t, and he didn’t. It was supposed to be—a joke, a fix, or something. A peace offering. Derek had called Stiles a freak a thousand times before. But it wasn’t, because it was true. Or it wasn’t true—Derek didn’t know. He didn’t have a fucking clue anymore.

He licked his lips, then flushed hotly. What if Stiles saw and thought—

It was just that his lips didn’t feel warm anymore. He didn’t mean anything by it. It just seemed wrong that they didn’t feel strange, they felt completely normal, like his entire reality hadn’t just been dragged out into the field and shot by his cocksure, impulsive, fucking fucked up best friend.

But Stiles had been the one who’d played woodchips at recess with Derek when Derek had been sitting by himself, and Stiles was the one who’d changed Derek’s senior year book entry to a Star Wars quote, and Stiles was the one who’d cried in Derek bed after his mom’s funeral in middle school. And even though Derek knew he was going to lose Stiles eventually, having it happen like this, this unexpected ax splitting them in two, felt like losing a limb.

“I hear all the hottest guys are in California,” Derek rasped, staring straight ahead. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Stiles, but he could see him perking up in his periphery, and Derek knew exactly what his face would look like.

His voice was bright and teasing, hopeful, as he said, “I hear all the hottest girls like small penis cars.”

But Derek dropped his line because he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth again. It was too much. He couldn’t imagine a single other thing to follow the exchange with, and he felt Stiles slowly deflate next to him. He heard Stiles reach for the door handle.

“I’ll see you at Thanksgiving,” Derek blurted. He gritted his teeth, biting down like he could keep his world from exploding if he just gripped it hard enough. He held on to the steering wheel like a lifeline, focused everything he had at it.

He saw Stiles’ head bow slightly, out of the corner of his eye, and then the door swung open and Stiles disappeared into the dark for the second time that night.

\---

Stiles left the next Wednesday, and Derek spent the whole day wedged underneath the Camaro, yanking at bolts that didn’t need to be tightened and banging on pipes because he knew he could get away with it. He busted his knuckles four times.

His mom came out at one point—she’d asked if Derek was going to see Stiles off at breakfast and watched him storm out of the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind him loud enough that he knew he’d be doing extra chores to make up for it later. She knew him, better than anybody except Stiles, probably, so she let him alone until late afternoon, and then she brought him a plate of sandwiches and a soda. She set it on the gravel beneath the passenger door and stood for a moment, quietly. Derek stopped, let his arms fall to his chest, and rolled his head sideways to stare at her scuffed tennis shoes, faded and dusty from the garden. She’d brought him Coke, his favorite.

“Clean out the gutters on the shed before you come in for dinner tonight,” was all she said. “And be sure you wash the windows after, I know how you slop that gunk around.”

He nodded even though she couldn’t see it, his throat tight. “Yes, mom.”

“That’s my good boy,” she replied. He felt her foot nudge his boot gently on her way back to the house.

Derek dropped his wrench and covered his face with his hands, breathing hotly into his palms.

\---

The real world wasn’t willing to stop for Derek’s troubles, so Derek showed up at Deaton’s at 7am on Monday. The garage was small—a little weathered, but tidy inside. Deaton greeted him politely and put him to work on Mrs. Fletcher’s old Buick, which looked like it spent more time inside the shop than out of it.

Derek settled into the garage easily. Deaton, for all he appeared to know everything about every engine in existence, seemed content to let Derek do all the actual work. Derek was okay with that, since he had the garage mostly to himself while Deaton puttered around the office and talked to customers. It was quiet in the shop and the clanking metal helped drown out Derek’s thoughts.

Stiles never called, and Derek ducked around corners whenever he spotted Sheriff Stilinski in town. He was afraid of what he’d ask if he talked to the man—and of what the answers would be. His family never asked him how Stiles was doing—undoubtedly his mother’s work—and Derek never offered. For all Stiles’ name never passed his lips, though, it always hovered in his mind, and when Derek crawled into bed at night, exhausted and morose, Stiles followed.

In his dreams, he was kissing Stiles. He knew it was him even though he couldn’t see him well—he knew his mouth, what his lips felt like, what his jaw would feel like under Derek’s fingertips, even though Derek knew he’d never touched him like that before. It was slick and hot, pulling Derek apart at the seams. The kiss devolved into flashes—of skin, of heat, of Stiles’ tongue on him. When Derek reached for Stiles he could never quite touch his skin, though he felt Stiles’ hands on him like a brand, stroking him as Derek arched his neck and cried out.

When he woke up, heart in his throat, he couldn’t let himself go back to sleep. When he stumbled back in the house at 5am from a run, he passed his mother without a word, refusing to answer the eyebrow she raised at him over her steaming mug of coffee.

The second time it happened, jerking awake from Stiles’ mouth around him to jizz pooling uncomfortably in his underwear, he kicked his shorts off with harsh, furious movements and dragged his laundry basket downstairs. If his family found it strange to find him belligerently doing laundry as the sun began to peek through the windows, they didn’t comment.

The third time it happened, he pressed his palms to his eyes and breathed. He didn’t understand. This wasn’t him. He’d never gotten off before from large brown eyes looking up at him or long, bony fingers wrapped in his hair. He’d never even thought of it, before Stiles had…done what he did in the car. Now it was like a curse, refusing to let go of Derek no matter how hard he tried to shove it away. It was like Stiles left something in him he couldn’t get out again. Had Stiles known what it would do to Derek, beforehand?

That was a bad thought, he knew. Stiles had never hurt Derek. Stiles hurt people all the time—from thoughtlessness or spite or petty revenge. He’d never intentionally hurt Derek, though, and Derek couldn’t believe that wasn’t real. He refused.

It was hard, though, to know how much of what he’d known about Stiles was real. He’d thought he’d known everything, but here was this huge, gigantic thing he’d been wrong about. He guesses he hadn’t known Stiles was straight—he’d never dated anyone—but there just hadn’t been any other options. Of course Stiles liked girls. Everyone liked girls. Derek liked girls, too, even thought he didn’t—hadn’t dated anyone in a while.

It would be easier, almost, if this had happened to Stiles. If he’d been normal, and gone to that stupid camp and somebody had left this thing inside Stiles, this thing that blindsided Derek so badly.

Maybe it wasn’t at camp, though. Stiles had seemed overcome and desperate in a way Derek didn’t think could build in just a few weeks. Stiles didn’t hang around a lot of people, though. He may have been Derek’s only friend, but Stiles didn’t have any, either. Where would Stiles have seen someone who made him think like this? Who showed up in Stiles’ dreams and made him wake in a damp sweat?

He ran through a list of the town, flashing through deputies and clerks and mechanics and students—too old, too young, too scraggly, bad teeth—crossing everyone off the list until Derek realized with a sickening lurch that the only attractive boy Stiles spent any time with was him.

\---

“What if I knew someone who was gay?”

His mother paused, the potato peeler stilling in her hand before returning to its work. “Now why are you askin’ a question like that?” she said.

Derek was quiet for too long, because he couldn’t come up with an answer. He couldn’t say “Stiles kissed me.” The idea paralyzed him. “Stiles is gay,” was too absolute—because maybe he wasn’t, maybe it was a fluke. He could have just been confused, leaving home for the first time. Mom always said they were too codependent anyway. He couldn’t expose Stiles now, condemn him to public opinion, if there was a chance he was wrong.

“You know I can’t tell you how to think,” Mom said eventually. “I never wanted that for my babies. You have to figure out your own mind. But,” she continued, while Derek nodded hopelessly, “the way I see it is, you’ve gotta take care of people. Old Joe down by the silos is an ornery cuss who’d just as soon spit on you as look at you. He drinks too much by half and can’t hang onto his money around poker games or pretty girls to save his life, but I still take him a plate on Sundays.”

It made sense. It matched everything he’d heard his whole life, with Mom’s familiar twist on it, but it sat heavy on him for some reason. Derek sucked in a breath through his nose, long and silent as he could, because he didn’t want his mama to turn around and see whatever was on his face right now.

“What if somebody made him…addicted to alcohol?” he asked, his voice thready. “What if they did it to him, somehow?”

“I figure you’ve got to take responsibility for your own actions, baby, just like your daddy and I always taught you.”

Derek twisted his fingers into the tail of his shirt, hunching over his lap. He’d never felt so sick in his life. “But the person who made him like he is, they have to take responsibility, too, right? Are they just as bad?”

He heard Mom finish the last potato, dropping it in the bowl and drying her hands on a towel. A moment later her hip rested against his shoulder and her fingers squeezed his neck.

“I don’t know about all that,” she said. “I just know that no one else is cooking that cranky old bastard dinner, so I do. I can’t see what’s wrong with that, no matter what your daddy says.

“You’ve always been a good boy, Derek,” she continued, moving back to the sink. “When you were five I watched you put baby birds back in a nest after you ran into a tree and knocked them out.” She chuckled. “Even the dead ones, ‘cause you thought they were sleeping.”

She sliced potatoes for a minute, and Derek watched them move, the familiar competence of her movements soothing and terrifying at the same time. He wished he were young enough that he could go wrap himself around her back, tuck his face into her neck, so he could feel her not pull away from him. Just to make sure.

“Derek, baby,” she said, “whatever it is we’re talking about tonight, I can’t imagine you’d hurt someone on purpose, and accidents aren’t anyone’s fault. You just remember that.”

He swallowed a few times. “Yes, Mom.”

\---

In September Derek helped the high school rig up their Homecoming floats to trucks with his boss’s logo on them. The volleyball team smiled and gave him candy, but he didn’t stick around for the parade.

On Halloween he helped his parents pass out candy and ignored his sister’s invitation to a party. She wouldn’t want him ruining her fun anyway, and he was a quick drive away if she needed a DD.

His mother gave him an assessing look and started leaving flyers for the community college around the house. She didn’t mention them, and Derek didn’t either.

In November, Stiles came home for Thanksgiving break.

\---

His mom let Stiles in and immediately wrapped him in a hug, crowing about how grown up he looked and how much fun he must be having and how he obviously needed to be sent home with a few slices of pie, since it couldn’t possibly be as good out in California.

Stiles agreed with her, but his eyes were on Derek, standing at the foot of the stairs behind his mom. Derek jerked his head over his shoulder and retreated to his room, barely able to hear Stiles clump up the stairs after him over the thudding of his own heart.

He’d told Stiles he’d see him at Thanksgiving, but he wasn’t actually prepared for it to happen. He was wearing pajama pants with an ice cream stain on them.

Stiles stopped just inside the doorway, closing the door behind him with a soft click that made Derek’s chest clench. Derek stood awkwardly beside his desk, resisting the urge to step behind his chair.

Neither of them acknowledged the bed.

Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath. “Your mom looks good,” he offered.

Derek nodded. “Laura’s done with school,” he added. “And Dad says—”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles blurted, cutting Derek off. “I am. I’m sorry for, for assaulting you.”

“You didn’t assault me,” Derek scoffed. “You couldn’t assault me if you tried.” It was true—even with Stiles having grown since last spring, he couldn’t even hope to overpower Derek.

“Assault doesn’t have to be fists, Derek,” Stiles insisted. “It was just as bad as what Kate did.”

Kate, taking a freshman to senior prom, running her fingers over his fly and laughing at the tears the eked out the corners of his eyes when he came.  


“She didn’t—”

Stiles’ voice was steely. “I don’t care what she told you, Derek, you don’t always have to want it.” He twisted his sleeves between his fingers. “And I— I knew you wouldn’t want it, but I was more concerned about what I wanted than I was about you. And I’m supposed to be your friend.”

“You are my friend,” Derek replied, but the words sounded hollow and insincere, even though he meant them.

Stiles looked down at the floor. “You don’t trust me anymore.” He said it like he’d already known it.

“I do trust you,” Derek said, but at this point even he was having trouble believing himself. “I just,” he bit out, frustrated. “Do I know you?”

Stiles dropped his head, nodding, the kind of sad satisfaction that comes from knowing you failed an exam before the grades got handed back to confirm it. “You always have,” he said, voice low. “I had kind of hoped you always would.”

He laughed, an unhappy sound that Derek had never associated with Stiles before, and nodded toward the door. “I have to get going. Maybe I’ll see you at Christmas.”

Derek nodded, unable to pull any kind of smile up. “Make sure to say bye to Mom,” he said automatically. “She missed you.”

Stiles laughed again. “Well, she always did have good taste. Bye, Derek.”

Derek watched the door close behind him and listened to his steps thumping down the stairs until he couldn’t really hear anymore and was imagining the sound of Stiles giving his mother a hug on his way out of Derek’s life.

\---

Derek sent in an application to the community college the week after. He wasn’t sure why, exactly—couldn’t articulate it to himself, really, and was glad when his parents didn’t bring it up other than to nod approvingly. He liked his job at Deaton’s shop and he liked living at home, close to his family, but something about it felt stagnant when he’d expected it to feel comfortable. He felt like a Tetris block that’d been dropped one space too far to the left. He didn’t want to leave—Stiles was the one who’d always wanted to go other places and do other things—but he felt like something needed to be added to his life, and it was only a couple hundred dollars to take a class. He’d saved up that much since fall, at least.

Two weeks later, Stiles came back to town for Christmas break. Derek wasn’t expecting it because it was still over a week to Christmas, but apparently Stiles’ exams had been scheduled early. He ran into him at the gas station and they made stilted conversation until Stiles waved his keys in the direction of the store and went inside to buy red licorice. Derek forgot to mention his application.

They ran into each other twice more over the holidays, each time making vague plans to get in touch or visit. They never did, and Stiles went back to California the day before New Years Eve. Derek heard the sheriff telling Betty about it at the diner.

\---

Derek started classes in January. The college was a few towns over, far enough away that he had to take the day off, but close enough that he could commute. He was surprised to learn that community colleges, at least, were good about designing class schedules around jobs. Derek signed up for two classes when he found out that they only met twice a week—an accounting class in case he ever got to run his own garage, and a woodworking shop, because he’d like to be able to make his parents some new cabinets when they finally got around to redoing their kitchen.

He only had classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, which Deaton agreed to give him off if he picked up Saturdays. It made for a busy week, but he had a three hour break between classes that he used to get some of his studying done. His mom packed him a lunch to save money and he ate over his books, in the large lobby or the randomly placed study chairs, and outside when the weather got nicer.

He settled in okay. It wasn’t as overwhelming as he thought it was going to be, and his Accounting teacher seemed happy enough to let him sit in the back and quietly take notes while other students lead the discussions. He didn’t make a whole lot of friends, but everyone was busy and working and trying to get their assignments in on time.

There was a big black guy in his Accounting class, who Derek ended up sitting next to in the first session, and Derek liked him a lot. He was quiet, but had a biting sense of humor, dry enough that Derek thought he probably missed a quarter of the jokes Boyd actually made. Boyd didn’t seem to care, though, and Derek thought he was getting better at picking them out. He liked studying with Boyd, and they spent more of their breaks studying together after Derek invited him a few months into the semester.

At home, Derek’s dreams continued occasionally—not every night, not even every week—but he didn’t bring the topic up to his mom again. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get a different answer, like he’d tapped her resources for that particular topic. Not that his mom was dumb—no one in his family was—or that she wouldn’t want to help him, but it wasn’t something Derek had ever thought about before, so why would his mom have? It was stressful to think about, and it scared him, and he didn’t want to force her to feel the way it made him feel. If he could just figure out the answer himself, somewhere else, then he wouldn’t have to concern her with it. Or if he did, at least he’d know what to tell her, to make it easier for her than it was for him.

He wasn’t making much progress, though.

\---

It was May before the weather was nice enough to entice Derek and Boyd out onto the grassy quad. Derek was finished with woodshop except for the final project, and their Accounting final was cumulative. Boyd was chewing absently on a highlighter while working through sale-leasebacks in his notebook when Derek hit a boring part in his reading and looked up from his book with a sigh.

His eyes landed on a couple standing with their arms around each other, round hips nudging against each other’s while they talked with a group of friends. Derek wouldn’t have thought anything of it—girls were handsy with their friends all the time—except suddenly the brunette leaned over for a brief kiss. Derek blinked in shock as the blonde returned it, then went back back to talking with their friends. Nobody reacted at all.

“Boyd.” Derek nudged him with an elbow, earning himself a flat look but also Boyd’s attention. “Do you know those girls?”

Boyd followed his nod at the group of teens under the trees. “What, Allison? Yeah, I think she’s doing some kind of law enforcement track. Plays soccer with us sometimes. And Erica, she went to my high school. Why?”

“They’re— I thought I just saw them kiss each other.” Derek was half-convinced he’d hallucinated the whole thing now.

Boyd raised an eyebrow. “That’s because they’re dating.”

“I. Oh.” Derek scrubbed a hand over his face and fell silent. He stared blankly at his textbook, glancing up at the group occasionally, until Boyd looked up at him again.

“You have a problem with them, Derek? Because Erica was y friend in high school, and I didn’t have many friends back then. You see what I’m saying?” Boyd stared at him levelly and Derek sputtered.

“I don’t have a problem with them,” Derek insisted. “I just. I’m just not used to it, where I’m from.”

Boyd nodded and was quiet for a moment before he said, “Does it matter where you’re from? We aren’t there now, are we?”

Derek stared at Boyd uncertainly, then dragged his gaze back to the group. They were sitting in the grass now, leaning against each other while one of the boys told a story, waving his hands through the air with words Derek couldn’t hear. Allison, tossing her wavy hair out of her face, used Erica’s shoulder to lever herself up from the ground, then ran her hand down Erica’s arm. She squeezed their hands together briefly before waving to the rest of the group and jogging away.

Derek stared at his textbook until Boyd had to leave for class, but he couldn’t focus on anything except the happy expressions on the other kids’ faces as they waved at Allison.

\---

When Derek masturbated that night, the experience was more frustrating than pleasant. The house was empty, he wasn’t exhausted or drunk or stressed, but for some reason he felt tense in a way that kept him half-soft and agitated. His thoughts flickered from one fantasy to another, unable to focus on anything that would help him get off.

He sighed, eventually, bringing his forearm up to cover his eyes, his other hand draped hopelessly around his cock. He breathed deep a few times, then thought about hands. Large hands, with long fingers and big knuckles and short, slightly bitten nails—what they’d feel like trailing over his collar bone, gripping his bicep, slipping into his mouth. Derek would suck them—he would, he knew he would—and it would make the man gasp and lean forward, into him, pressing their foreheads together. He’d kiss him, opening his mouth for thin, soft lips and a hot tongue.

Derek moved his hand, feeling himself harden as he pictured soft flannel sliding off broad shoulders, as broad as his own but less bulky, the skin pale and smooth and the muscles hard and wiry under his hands. He’d pull his t-shirt up, running his hands over muscled ribs, through short, tousled hair after it popped through the collar. He wouldn’t pay attention to where he dropped the shirt, too busy feeling the skin of the other man’s cheek against his own. Derek rolled his hips up into his fist, imagining the friction came from a hard, muscled thigh instead.

His brain stuttered at the next thought, of a bulge pressing up against his own, but he made himself do it. He threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut tight, biting his lip as he imagined unzipping the jeans while Stiles, Stiles would be breathing heavily, his skin sliding against Derek’s knuckles as he sucked in stuttering breaths. He’d look into Derek’s eyes as Derek pulled him out, clutch his shoulders when Derek looked down at his own hand pulling on Stiles’ cock. He’d scrabble for purchase on Derek’s slick skin and try to climb even closer, until the angle was hard on Derek’s wrist and he had to let go. And Stiles would kiss him and kiss him because Stiles didn’t know how to do things unenthusiastically. And maybe Derek would roll them over and push Stiles down into the mattress, holding him in place even as Stiles pulled up to try to get closer to him. Maybe Stiles would grab his ass at the bottom and pull him in, and their dicks would slide together against their stomachs, slick from sweat because it would be so hot and Stiles would babble incoherently the whole time—

When Derek came over his own fist it was with a cutoff groan he strangled into silence before remembering he was alone in the house. His chest heaved as he breathed, trying to slow his racing heart. He trailed his fingers absently through the come on his stomach, staring sightlessly at his white ceiling, trying to figure out what he felt like.

The same person, that was for sure. He still felt like himself, but settled in a way he hasn’t been since August. More relaxed than he’d ever imagined being.

He wondered if Stiles felt the same way.

\---

Derek didn’t sign up for summer classes, and by June he realized he was bored. He worked Tuesday through Saturday at the shop now, but Deaton let him keep Monday off so he got a weekend even if it wasn’t all on the weekend. Boyd still had classes, though, so every few weeks Derek would drive over and join whatever pick up game Boyd’s friends were playing that week. Derek had always been pretty athletic and he liked the camaraderie, even though he knew they were Boyd’s friends more than his.

He did get to know them more, though—a curly-haired kid named Isaac who was simultaneously hesitant and aggressive, as well as Allison and Erica. Erica always smirked at him like she knew something he didn’t, but Allison was happy enough to pass him the ball or block him if they were on opposite teams. The first time she knocked him down, she hefted him back up with a firm grip and told him he was good, but he’d get better if he stuck with her. He’d believed her, so he did.

He was still bored, though, even having more of social life than he had for the past year. Or maybe bored wasn’t the right word for it—jittery, unsettled. Misaligned. He felt it the most when he would see Stiles around town occasionally, but he didn’t go over to say hi. Stiles was happy, from what he heard on the grapevine, but he looked guilty and sad whenever he noticed Derek. Derek left him alone.

When he explained it to his mom, she commented that she shouldn’t be surprised at all, because Derek looked sad and guilty until he saw Stiles and then he looked happy.

“You never did do well without that boy,” she said.

One Monday Erica called and invited him to a meeting at the school. He gathered in a free classroom with a handful of other students and ate free pizza while Allison and Erica held hands. They listened to the speaker talk about medical resources, mental health resources, and the upcoming LGBT book fair on campus. At the end the speaker passed out free condoms, and Allison and Erica gave Derek theirs. Derek pocketed them, unsure what else to do.  
He went to the book fair that weekend and bought a few because he felt obligated—it was for a charity after all, kind of. The pamphlets he picked up were more interesting. He kept going to the meetings on Mondays, and during the first week of July he texted Stiles.

\---

All it had said was “Come over tomorrow night?” and all Stiles sent back was “ok”. Derek tried to convince himself it was a good sign that Stiles replied at all, but it didn’t help settle the butterflies in his stomach.

Stiles arrived as his parents were heading out the door to the fish fry on Main Street. They gave him happy hugs and didn’t mention they hadn’t seen him at the house in six months. Derek’s mom gave him some very encouraging eyebrows over the back of Stiles’ head, though, before his dad dragged her off to the truck.

He stood awkwardly in the kitchen with Stiles for a few moment, hesitant to invite him up to his room but not sure what else to do. Stiles seemed equally out of his depth, and when he asked, “Can I sit down?” Derek felt it like a kick in his stomach, that Stiles felt he had to ask permission in the house he’d half grown up in.

“I, um. I’m sorry,” Derek said once they were seated. “For not getting back to you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles replied, his voice tight with misery. “You think everything is your fault and it never is.”

“It kind of is, Stiles. You have to make me take the heat for the things I screw up,” he said over Stiles’ protests, “or I’m never going to get better at them.  
“I’m sorry I didn’t understand,” Derek finished quietly.

Stiles nodded and ran a hand down his face, his eyes pinched. “I’m still sorry I assaulted you.”

“Thank you,” was all Derek said.

“I was just desperate, and I convinced myself it would be easier. I didn’t— I got so wrapped up in myself.”

“I know who you are,” Derek told him. “I’m sorry I thought I didn’t. I’m sorry I thought it made a difference.”

“Jesus,” huffed Stiles, looking up through his fingers with guarded hope in his eyes. “You sure know how to pack a punch.”

“Sorry,” said Derek, uncomfortable as Stiles laughed again, disbelievingly. “I just wanted to get it right. I didn’t want to talk again like last time.”

Stiles nodded, lowering his eyes. “I don’t think we did each other any favors that day.”

“I was really confused,” Derek told him. “And normally I go to you but I couldn’t. And I didn’t know where else to— There weren’t a lot of people to talk to.”

“So what did you do?” Stiles asked, guiltily picking at the edge of a placemat.

“I made new friends,” Derek said, voice low. “I went to meetings. I read…things. It was a lot to take in. I didn’t want to rush and screw up again.”

“You didn’t screw up—”

“You don’t know what I thought,” Derek interrupted. “You don’t— I thought maybe someone forced you. I thought maybe I—maybe I did something to you without realizing it. You’ve always had a bigger mind than this town,” Derek said over the sad noise coming from Stiles, “but I haven’t. I didn’t know where to start.”

“I’m sorry I left you,” Stiles told him, his voice thick with sincerity. “Can we. Do you want to…be friends again? Please?”

“Yes,” Derek exhaled. “Yeah. Please.”

“God,” choked Stiles. “Thank you. I missed you so much, Derek. It was so different without you. You’d hate my dorm, it’s so crowded and noisy.”

“City kids are the worst,” Derek agreed, and Stiles laughed, a joyful burst of relief Derek hadn’t been sure he’d ever get to hear again.

“Do you want to go for a drive?” Derek asked.

They stood, and as Derek passed, Stiles yanked him into a tight hug, wrapping his long arms around Derek in a vice-like grip.

“Sorry,” he murmured into Derek’s shoulder. “Sorry, sorry, I just—”

“It’s okay,” Derek replied, tucking his face into Stiles’ shoulder. “This is good.”

When they parted Derek ran his palm under his eyelashes, his head ducked down, and Stiles cleared his throat roughly. They didn’t talk on the way to the car, and they didn’t talk much once they were driving, either. Stiles seemed content to let Derek take the lead, just running his hand through the air outside the car window as they drove through town.

Derek kept them away from the main drag—there wasn’t anyone else he wanted to talk to right now, and he didn’t want them to get distracted by anything. He kept to the outskirts, then left town altogether to hit the country roads. He drove them lazily, for the most part, except when he revved up to take a hill, just so he could hear Stiles laugh when his stomach swooped on the way down.

They quieted when the sun went down, their pensiveness amplifying in the dark. It was more comfortable than it had any right to be, but Derek still wasn’t where he needed to be. He was only halfway there, and there were plenty of steps to trip over on the way.

He took a turn onto a grassy lane that cut into the field on their left. If Stiles was curious, he didn’t say anything as Derek slowly steered the Camaro down the path as it curved through the field. Either a waterway when it flooded, Derek thought through the tightening in his chest, or just a path for tractors during the summer.

When he couldn’t see the road behind them anymore Derek put the car in park, and they both looked at the wall of corn stalks.

“I don’t know if you’re dating anybody,” he said.

Stiles snorted. “You know I’ve never understood why everyone doesn’t want to get all up on this, but they’re as consistent about it at school as they were here.”

“I don’t,” agreed Derek. At Stiles questioning look, he continued. “I don’t understand, either. Why anyone wouldn’t.”

Stiles eyes widened, and Derek took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’re dating anybody,” he repeated, “but if you aren’t, if you’re interested... I don’t want to kiss you without warning, because we both found out how that goes.” He clenched the steering wheel in his palms, unable to look at Stiles’ face anymore. “But if you wanted to kiss me, still, then I want you to. I want you to want to,” he tried to clarify.

“You want me to want to kiss you,” Stiles repeated, sounding a lot more skeptical than Derek had hoped for.

“If you don’t want to—” he snapped, but then Stiles was reaching out and placing his fingers on Derek’s jaw, turning him to face Stiles.

Stiles’ eyes were bright, running over Derek’s face rapidly, and he leaned in, his fingers still touching Derek’s cheek. Derek felt his eyes start to flutter shut, but Stiles froze, pulling himself to a halt in front of him.

“Are you sure?” Stiles pleaded, close enough that his breath puffed on Derek’s skin. “Derek, please, I—”

Derek reached up, resting his fingertips against Stiles’ hand on his face, and leaned forward, slotting their lips together. The touch was soft and tentative as Derek moved his lips achingly slowly against Stiles’ mouth. He felt like his heart was in his throat, like time couldn’t possibly move slow enough or fast enough for Derek to recall all the details of this moment. Stiles was breathtakingly still, frozen under Derek’s hand except for the small, reciprocal movements of his lips. Derek opened his eyes and pulled back slowly, listening as Stiles took a deep, slow breath.

Derek’s gaze slipped down Stiles’ face, taking in his long eyelashes, the curve of his mouth, the upturn of his nose, letting himself look closer than he ever had before. He leaned in again and mapped the shape of Stiles’ lower lip with his own, the sound of their breathing filling his ears until he couldn’t hear anything else. He kissed Stiles slowly, exploring, with Stiles leaning into him carefully, his mouth pliant and accepting as Derek brushed their lips together again and again.

Derek raised a hand to Stiles cheek, running it lightly down his jaw. “Stiles,” he whispered against his mouth. “Please.”

Stiles moved his hand finally, running his fingers down Derek’s neck, then up into his hair, where he grasped a handful and tugged Derek’s head to the side, sliding their lips back together and opening Derek’s mouth to slide his tongue inside.

This, this was what Derek wanted. He didn’t moan, but he felt it through his whole body, as if all the tension flowed out of him and left nothing but heat in his belly. Stiles mouth, warm and wet, opening Derek up carefully and thoroughly, with more attention than Derek had ever seen Stiles give anything. Stiles’ hands on his face, on his neck, running down his back and around his hip, coming to rest lightly against his collarbone.

Derek pressed forward, palms framing Stiles' shoulders and running down his chest to his waist. The slight gasp Stiles let out brushed over his lips, cooling them in stark contrast to the flush of heat warming the nape of his neck and cheeks. Derek squeezed the curve of Stiles’ waist, sliding his fingers around to trace the line of hair hidden beneath his shirt. When he brushed the top of Stiles’ belt, Stiles’ hands tightened reflexively in his hair and they gasped, together, breathing into each other’s mouths desperately.

“Can we go back to your place?” Stiles whispers, his voice rough. “Are your parents home?”

“No,” Derek says. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

It took him two tries to get the Camaro shifted into first gear.

\---

They tumbled across the threshold, a mess of limbs caught up together as they tried to navigate through swinging doors without separating their mouths from each other. Stiles clipped his chin on Derek’s shoulder and bit his own lip trying to maneuver up the stairs, and Derek laughed and dragged him the rest of the way up while he whined and clutched his face, laughter sneaking through his fingers.

Derek’s heel caught the carpet as he pulled them into his bedroom, and he tripped out of Stiles’ arms. Stiles hung onto the door, pushing it shut with his weight, while Derek regained his balance. Derek’s mirth choked off at the sudden distance between them, only the curve of Stiles’ forehead, the sharp edge of his chin, visible in the darkness. He gulped, listening to his own ragged breath.

Stiles stepped forward, quiet now, and ran a hand down Derek’s arm, brushing their fingers together lightly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Derek nodded, feeling his hair brush against Stiles own. He brought his other hand up and let his fingers rest against the outside of Stiles’ thigh, barely brushing the denim of his jeans. He tipped his head down, and he felt the heat from the side of Stiles’ neck on his own. Their chests would brush if he took a deep breath. He imagined he could feel Stiles’ t-shirt shifting against his own.

Stiles rubbed his cheek against Derek’s, barely touching, letting his nose brush the skin of his jaw.

“Do you wanna stop?” he asked, barely audible in the stillness of the room. “We can.”

“No,” Derek breathed. He moved his hand to Stiles’ waist and pulled him in, folding into the warmth of Stiles’ body like coming home.

Their lips caught, hot and slow and steady, grounding Derek against the wash of heady sensations. He focused on that, the slow slide of their lips and Stiles’ wide hand wrapped firmly around the back of Derek’s neck. Derek’s fingers clenched compulsively in the fabric of Stiles’ shirt, and he raised his hands under it to slide up Stiles’ ribs and around his back, pulling him tight against Derek.

Stiles moaned into his mouth and pressed his hips forward, locking his fingers in Derek’s hair as he panted, his breath hot on Derek’s tongue. Derek pushed them forward, his eyes fluttering shut when it made their cocks slide against each other inside their jeans, until they tipped down onto his mattress with a bounce that had Stiles’ breath catching audibly in his throat.

Derek looked down at Stiles, his body buzzing and his pulse loud in his ears, and he reached out and fumbled, rattling around his nightstand until he found his lamp.

“Want to see you,” he managed as Stiles squinted against the sudden light flooding his face.

It wasn’t even that much—just a reading lamp that cast a soft, yellow tint across Stiles’ cheekbones, creating shadows in the dip of his collar bone and his lower lip. Derek ran a finger down the line of Stiles’ neck, watching it move from light to shadow with unselfconscious fascination. Stiles rocked up into him, strong hands grasping his hips, and Derek’s eyes jerked up to find Stiles watching him, eyes half-shuttered.

“Derek,” he said, and he ran his hands up to Derek’s armpits, dragging his shirt with him. Derek lifted his arms automatically, allowing Stiles to tug his shirt over his head, and he watched in a daze as Stiles scrambled out of his shirt as well before pulling Derek down on him with a happy groan.  
He kissed Derek deeply, his teeth and tongue hard and fast as his hands roamed Derek’s body—tugging his hair, squeezing his shoulders, then cupping his ass, gripping tight and pulling Derek’s hips down as his own canted up in a mind-blowing rhythm.

Derek squeezed his eyes shut, panting heavily as Stiles bit the crook of his shoulder, followed by the wet strip of his tongue. His hands rested against the bed by Stiles’ ribcage, flexing into the blankets, unsure where to go or what to do while Stiles writhed against him. The sensations overwhelmed him, here in his childhood bedroom with Stiles—Stiles—bucking up into him like he’d die if he couldn’t get off soon—get off against Derek, who hadn’t even seriously considered this more than a month ago—

One of Stiles’ hands left his ass and dug between them, tugging his own fly down with a curse and a frustrated wriggle of his hips. Derek arched his back up reflexively, giving them room as Stiles jerked his own jeans down his hips, watching in a daze as Stiles palmed himself once through his boxers.

Then Stiles reached up to pull Derek’s jeans open, and Derek’s hand shot down and gripped him by the wrist.

They froze, equally surprised as they looked at the tableau between them—the tip of Stiles’ dick peeking out of his boxers, Derek’s abs heaving against his jeans, and Stiles’ completely still, as though he were afraid to even breathe.

Derek looked up, slowly, and met Stiles’ horrified gaze.

“I did it again,” he said, sounding devastated, his fingers twitching guiltily in Derek’s waistband. “Der, I’m sorry, I’m so—”

“Shh, stop,” Derek said, bringing Stiles’ hand up and kissing his wrist. He held Stiles’ hand against his cheek for a moment, then looked back at him. “It was just…a lot. God, Stiles, I’ve never…and it’s you, and a few months ago I thought this had ruined my life, but now it’s all here and real, and—”  
“Do you want to stop?” Stiles asked, swiping Derek’s cheekbone with his thumb. “Because I will. I mean I might go, like, commune with your bathroom for a hot minute, but from then on it’s PG all the way, we can just go to sleep. Or I can go—I can go home, if you want. We could just get lunch tomorrow. Or not, if—if you don’t think—”

“Stiles,” Derek cut him off, “I don’t want you to leave. God, I haven’t seen you in a year, of course I don’t want you to leave. And I don’t want to stop, I just…I don’t know.”

Stiles watched him for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth pensively. He slid his hand out of Derek’s and pushed against his chest gently. 

“Let me up?” he asked.

Derek shifted back onto his heels, watching as Stiles slithered out from between his legs and kicked his jeans off.

“Is this okay?” Stiles confirmed, watching until Derek nodded, his eyes caught on the long lines of Stiles’ thighs.

“Will you take your jeans off?” Stiles asked, and Derek nodded again, his head ducked down as he undid his button. His zipper seemed frighteningly loud as he pulled it down, but he ignored it and pushed off his jeans and his socks.

“C’mere, sit on your knees,” Stiles urged, shuffling forward until his knee wedged between Derek’s thighs. “Good?”

Derek nodded. “Good.” He ran his fingers along Stiles’ jaw and tipped his head, guiding him forward into a kiss.

Stiles met him eagerly, wrapping his hand around Derek’s wrist and bringing it to his chest. He held it there for a minute and then let go, running his palms slowly up Derek’s arms and gripping his biceps.

Derek kissed him back, his fingers resting lightly on Stiles’ chest. He moved his thumb carefully over Stiles’ skin, gratified when Stiles inhaled sharply and bit Derek’s lip. Heat flowed through him and he nipped back, taking the kiss deeper and running his hand up and down Stiles’ side, bolder now. He grasped Stiles’ shoulder with his other hand, pulling him closer as he felt himself harden again. Stiles’ hands were rooted to Derek’s biceps where he first planted them, until Derek whined and shook his elbows, trying to get Stiles with the program. His hips flexed upward, trying to find friction against his boxers.

“Fuck,” gasped Stiles, “do you—”

“Yeah,” Derek managed, reaching one hand down and awkwardly scrambling out of his boxers. Stiles followed suit, climbing back toward Derek the instant he was naked.

Derek went straight for his neck this time, biting the curve of his jaw and running his lips down the straining tendons of his neck, leaving Stiles gasping and clutching Derek closer. Filled with heat and surrounded by warmth, Derek reached down and wrapped his hand around Stiles’ cock, solid and thick and silky soft against his palm.

Derek made a noise, a disbelieving whine as Stiles groaned and hitched his hips forward.

“So good,” Stiles gasped, dropped his hands to Derek’s hips. “Can I—?”

Derek nodded jerkily, his cock throbbing in the cool air. He watched slack-jawed, his hand still working automatically over Stiles, as Stiles licked his palm thoroughly, gazing at Derek through his eyelashes, and wrapped his hand around him, sliding around the head and making Derek’s vision white out. He dropped his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck, his hand slowing on Stiles. He couldn’t focus, not watching his dick move in and out of Stiles’ palm, his long fingers wrapped around Derek, better than any fantasy he’d ever come up with. His thighs flexed convulsively, straining against nothing but his self-control as worked him, twisting faster and faster. Sweat bloomed between his shoulder blades, and Stiles kissed his neck, sloppy and hot, whispering and groaning into Derek’s ear. He gave his wrist a quick jerk and Derek moaned as his body clenched and he watched his come splatter across Stiles’ thigh.

Derek leaned his weight into Stiles, rubbing his forehead against Stiles’ neck as he tried to get his breath back. Stiles was chanting, “Derek, Derek, Derek,” under his breath, his own hands moving beneath Derek’s on Stiles’ dick. Derek swayed upright, knocking Stiles’ hand off and getting his own back where it belonged. It was wetter than before—God, he must have swiped Derek’s come, rubbed Derek’s come onto his dick for slick—and Stiles immediately wrapped his hands around Derek’s, sliding them up and down his shaft rapidly.

Derek tipped his face into Stiles’ for a kiss, too uncoordinated for more than catching lips and breathing into each other’s mouths. Stiles’ voice caught, suddenly, and Derek kept their hands moving as Stiles came, milking him through it until Stiles collapsed against him fully.

Derek hooked an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and held him close while they caught their breath, hiding his eyes in Stiles’ neck and brushing his lips against his collar bone. When Stiles pulled back, he surveyed Derek’s face, and smiled, seemingly pleased by whatever he found. He leaned into Derek slowly, letting Derek come forward to claim a quick kiss, and another, before leaning back and reaching for tissues.

“We’re pretty good at that, don’t you think?” Stiles commented when they were tucked under the covers, Stiles on his back and Derek next to him, an arm over his chest.

“The best,” Derek agreed truthfully, before he fell asleep.

\---

In the morning Stiles told Derek’s mom he couldn’t stay for breakfast, and Derek was pathetically grateful. He felt like an asshole, but he didn’t know how he would deal with wanting to touch Stiles and not wanting to touch Stiles in front of his parents and not wanting Stiles to know he didn’t want to touch him in front of his parents.

Stiles already knew, though, of course he did. And he gave Derek the break he didn’t deserve, bowing out with another hug for Derek’s mom and an overly large, cheesy wink for Derek as he sailed out the door.

Stiles came over a lot after that, and Derek spent a lot of evenings at the Sheriff’s house, too. Stiles was perfectly comfortable being a “them” in front of his dad, but they had a long discussion about it in Stiles’ bedroom the first night. Stiles was clear that he didn’t want to push Derek’s boundaries, but he also didn’t feel good about lying to his dad. Eventually they agreed that they would talk to the sheriff together. He was happy when Stiles told him they were dating—less thrilled when Derek asked him to please not mention it to Derek’s family. Just for a bit, just until Derek was ready.

The sheriff told him he understood how hard it could be, but that Derek needed to try, very hard, for Stiles. And while he was sure Derek’s parents would be understanding, Derek should know he was welcome to come to the sheriff’s house any time he felt he needed to.

“It’ll be fine,” Stiles reassured Derek. “I’ll help you.”

Derek took Stiles to campus, to meet his new friends. Stiles and Erica got along like a house on fire, which would have worried him if he didn’t know Stiles would be back in California in a month. Those two had all the makings of a disaster between them.

The first week of August, lying on Derek’s bed side by side, Stiles said, “I’m going to miss you,” in a small voice.

Derek hummed softly, then said, “You wouldn’t have to. I mean.”

Stiles propped himself up on an elbow. “What do you mean? Of course I would. It’s gonna be—it’s gonna be the worst, without you again.”

“I meant,” Derek said, “I haven’t signed up for classes yet this fall. I could— There’s a community college not far from you. They’ll take my credits, I checked.

“There’s a website you can do that on,” Derek clarified when Stiles just stared at him.

“You want to come to California?” Stiles asked.

Derek rolled up on his side so he was facing Stiles. “I don’t want to be across the country from you,” he said, because he and Stiles had adopted a policy of full honesty. “I can be a mechanic anywhere. And I guess it might be nice not to blister in the summer and freeze in the winter.”

“Ha,” Stiles laughed, sounding a bit like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. “You only want me for my weather, I see how it is.”

“I’m just taking advantage of all your assets,” Derek assured him.

Stiles laughed and tumbled on top of him, tussling until Derek rolled over on top of him and pinned him down.

“You could get an apartment,” Stiles decided, eyes bright, “and I can help you find one in a good spot and make sure you don’t get ripped off by a shitty landlord. And then I can come hang out at your place instead of the dorm lounge when Scott sexiles me. And I can show you all the fun places on campus. And on my off days I can come ogle you when you’re all sweaty and greased up at work!”

Derek groaned and dropped his head on Stiles’ chest as Stiles continued to plan the rest of his life for him.

\---

His parents helped him pack all his stuff into a tiny U-Haul that he hooked to the back of the Camaro with his dad. He had some of Stiles’ stuff too—so he wouldn’t have to check a second bag on the plane. They’d meet up in California and Derek would help Stiles carry his stuff up and then Stiles would help Derek move into his new apartment, a small studio a handful of blocks from Stiles’ dorm.

His mom loaded his backseat with food and snacks and more canned goods than he knew what to do with. His dad pulled him into a rough hug, clapped him on the shoulder, and told him he expected him home for Christmas, if not Thanksgiving. His mom hugged him next, and got a little weepy into his shoulder, telling him to take care of himself as she wiped under her nose with a crumpled tissue.

He’d told them he was moving out were Stiles was, but not why. Maybe they guessed, maybe not. There were times when Derek felt perfectly comfortable and some times he was seized with terror at the thought of them knowing about him. He’d tell them the truth soon, though. He didn’t like lying to his parents any more than Stiles did. Hopefully after some time away, some more time as himself, he’d feel strong enough to do it. Maybe he would feel steady enough to balance the fear that held him back now.

And even if he and Stiles didn’t work out—because he loved Stiles, he did, but they were teenagers and Derek wasn’t stupid—he knew Stiles would still be there to help him through it, because Derek knew Stiles better than anybody. Stiles didn’t give up on people, and Derek had promised the sheriff he’d never give Stiles reason to.

Derek smiled as he passed the city limits, because he was three days away from Stiles and everything that came with him.

**Author's Note:**

> yes hello I have a [tumblr](http://appolsaucy.tumblr.com)


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